The Property Manager: You'll never rent again...

by NS Thompson

  I’m so glad you’re in Babylon. You light up my life. Where is that C.D?

  Bye xxx

  18/06/05 Friday

  Grace,

  I’m mortified by my ranting last night. Please understand it was a mixture of things – medication, some wine with dinner, stress and thwarted desire…burgeoning passion and love, love, love. I’m feeling a lot better but still a bit poisoned so I told Ron to pull his head in (on the answering machine this morning …and not in those words) so I am going to spend the day in bed. It would be nice to have you in my crisp white sheets next to me. I’m not obsessive about laundry etc. but I am a single man with few overheads so I can afford to employ a local woman to do my cleaning and laundering. That probably seems decadent to you as a single mum, juggling everything yourself, but that’s another reason we should merge. Together we’d be great.

  Nora is a woman who started well but got a lot of bad breaks. She’s meticulous and she gets $12 dollars an hour, cash in hand, to be my slave.

  Did I explain that Vickie the Vulture decided to be a political scientist or some such nonsense, years ago and went back to university. I supported her all the way and then found out about …..TINA! Yes Vickie dearest…I could see into your self-satisfying, emotionally immature brain. I told her how my intuition had led me to trace the trail of their sordid affair. I realized I had married a shallow, perverted freak. She was a whore. She screwed women, men, anything it would seem. I no longer put anything past her.

  I went around to this lesbian woman’s house and got so close to burning it down. You have no idea how much pain I was in. I knew that Vicki had to go. There was no way I would touch her diseased flesh ever again unless it was to hurt her. I told her to pack her bags and take her filthy carcass far away from me. She smiled and flicked her tongue at me like an evil snake-woman and slithered out of my life.

  Oh God, I didn’t mean to travel down this dirt road. Sometimes it just attacks me.

  That bitch left me for another woman and said it was ALL MY OWN FAULT.

  I was discussing this with my cleaning lady yesterday. She said I should get some therapy. I said she should clean my house.

  How amazingly brilliant for us, Grace – both recovering from shattered hearts – to miraculously have our paths cross. You will soothe my tortured memories as I will yours.

  I promise I will never talk of Vicki again. She is as dead to me as Michael is to you. All I ask is that you never talk to me of your husband. The idea that you have been touched and fondled and made love to by another man, really doesn’t sit well with me. I never want to know if you had lovers before him. It isn’t right for a woman to talk of that. There are many mistakes that we both made before we found each other but that’s all in the past. We will be like virgins together the first time I take you to bed. I will be as nervous as a teenage boy. Will you blush as I gently undress you?

  You are a princess, Grace. I noticed that your next of kin, your mother, lives in Monaco Street on the Gold Coast. How ironic. I need to sleep, now. I’m weak and hot and need you to bring me some chicken soup.

  20/06/05 Saturday

  There’s a frost this morning, Grace. Look outside your window. It’s beautiful. I’m up early. It’s 6:35 and the sun is just embracing us. One of the most beautiful things to do on a morning like this is to drive out along Gainsborough Road toward the highway. The sprinkling of heritage farms with their tin roofs and water tanks and the crazy combinations of pines and poplars and gums with stalactites of icicles dripping from their limbs actually makes me feel like I have a soul. Most of the rest of the time, I don’t. As the frost melts, the vapour rises. It’s quite beautiful. You didn’t get frost in Bondi, unless it was some new designer drug.

  I’m so glad you’ve moved into a healthier environment, trading traffic for country lanes and smog for mist. Thank-you for coming into my life. I’m going in to work today. I’m feeling much better. I was worried there for a while that Doctor Death had cast a spell on me.

  I do apologize for my comments of late but I get a bit antsy when I’m sick and on medication. I was taking something to help me sleep as well and I think that’s what pushed me over the line.

  But you are a very sexy woman, so you can hardly blame me for fantasizing. I imagine you love your own body. You look comfortable in your skin. That’s great. That’s healthy. So long as it’s pointed in the right direction. A woman with a strong sexual identity stands out. How does the old adage go? Men want to SLEEP with her and women want to BE her. That is you, my dear. That sums you up.

  Hi ho hi ho it’s off to work I go. Not exactly whistling, though. When we start spending some quality time together, I’ll drop my Saturdays so I can spend it with you and the boys.

  Love you.

  20/06/05 Sunday

  Grace honey, it’s 4:16 a.m. I’m shaking and very upset. My mother has just been taken to Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. She had a fall and cut her head very badly. The neighbours heard her calling for help and rang an ambulance. She’s in theatre now and they say she’s lost a lot of blood. Oh, Grace, I know Mum’s old but I don’t want her to die. Not tonight. I’m racing off now. And I don’t know what will happen. I want you to meet her. She’s funny and beautiful and strong. Like you. I have to go right now. I’ll put the journal in my overnight bag, so in essence you’re coming with me. Pray for Mum. I’m not religious but in a time like this, I’m willing to embrace any possibility. Her name is Elizabeth. That’s your middle name. I guess you didn’t need me to tell you that. I wish you were here to hold me - to drive to Sydney with me and to stand next to me by Mum’s side. I’ll let you know how she fares as soon as I know.

  I feel sick in the guts thinking about my mother lying in a pool of blood.

  21/06/05 Monday.

  She’s okay. Thank God, Grace.

  It was awful. When I saw her wheeled back into her room on that metallic trolley, like a slab of meat in a supermarket, I reeled. She looked dead. She was grey and appeared to have shrunk. Her mouth hung open like a gaping, leather bag – the entrance to a spiralling black hole. My body seized up. But I saw the drip running from her arm up to a saline bag, hanging from a hook above the bed frame and figured no hospital would waste money on hydrating a corpse. I kissed her on the forehead. She was cold but I could feel her breath and see the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Life, the universe and everything! I thanked them all.

  The doctor spoke with me in the hall and told me she had been very lucky. If the neighbours hadn’t been home, or Mum had been unconscious for any longer – I may have been making funeral arrangements today.

  I rang Ron at home. Kathy answered and I felt like asking her how she felt about her husband moonlighting as a middle-aged lothario, but bit my tongue. Ron got on and actually sounded sympathetic about Mum and I felt a momentary flash of guilt for having fantasized about putting him in a wood- chipper………… a la “Fargo.”

  22/06/05 Tuesday

  This morning, Belinda, my receptionist, gave me my list of tenants in arrears. I was surprised to see your name on it. You may have just forgotten. Are you having financial problems? Maybe a bit strained after the expense of moving and setting up a new home. You strike me as being clever with your budgeting. Did you get any financial compensation when your husband was killed on the job? I’m sure the police force gives widows some kind of pension or something. You do present yourself to the world as a bubbly, extrovert but you do have a serious and sensible streak running beneath the surface. I know that because I’m an expert at reading people. I sent you the necklace today with a note. That should give you a thrill as long as that useless, man-marrying, mail-man can manage to deliver it.

  I really don’t want to hassle you for money, Grace. That just doesn’t feel right. It’s a bit naughty of you to put me in this awkward situation. I’ll have to come up with another excuse to see you and then I’ll just casually make mention that you’ve slipped a little with your payments. I’m sure you’ll be
a bit embarrassed and fix it all up quickly. You don’t want to slip behind because once you’re a week behind it is almost impossible to catch up and stay there. I can be tolerant with you but only to a point. The owners do need their monthly cheque or I’m out of a job. Once we’re completely together, you won’t have to worry about rent. I will look after you.

  Hang on. I’m just making a cup of tea

  I’m back…… and I have a plan. After I knock back this cup of Earl Grey, I will go for a run. I’ll be seeing you real soon. It’s 10:30 so I hope you’re not asleep yet.

  12:32 p.m

  I’m back. A little out of breath. It’s frigid outside and a light rain is beginning to fall. I am the luckiest man in the world to have someone as delightful as you. I hadn’t been to your place since the night your cat gave me the evil eye. I’ve shown great restraint and there were the distractions of the seminar trip and Mum’s fall.

  Tonight I trod lightly down the other side of your house. There was light streaming from your bathroom so I stopped and waited, listening. Suddenly I heard your voice coming from behind me. I whirled around with my stomach in my throat! With a relieved sigh I realized your voice had come from the middle bedroom. The smallest one. The window was slightly open, so your voice sounded close. Well you were close. Only two metres at the most. But the wall and window separated us. Your voice came again – “Here’s your water. Now go to sleep, Harry. I’m sick of this every night. You’ve been to the toilet, brushed your teeth and you’ve got water so go to sleep.” You said the last three words in a flat staccato.

  Harry didn’t respond and I heard you shut his door.

  I squatted on my knees and breathed into my hands to warm them up. I will have to start wearing gloves if I continue these night visits. Like a commando, I crept along your brick wall, past your gas box, getting closer to the arc of light spread out on the grass. I stopped short, not wanting to cast a shadow, in case you were in standing in the bathroom. I manoeuvred myself awkwardly so that I could get a clear but narrow view through your bathroom and across your blue carpet to your sliding, glass doors. Your blinds were all the way up. I could just see the corner of your bed covered in purple.

  It was only a few minutes before you walked across my line of vision and I felt a rush of adrenalin. I sat frog-like on the cold grass in my black track-suit, stock still, holding my breath as you walked into the bathroom, pulling the band from your hair. You looked so relaxed and beautiful. You stood in front of the mirror. I couldn’t see it, only you. You inspected your face, and then brushed your flaming head of hair. My heart pumped harder as you stepped out of your pyjama pants. Your bare, pale legs were only an arm’s length from me. I blinked hard, feeling a wave of arousal flood my system. As you pulled your top over your head, my mouth went dry and I stared straight at the central triangle of you and then back up to your heavy breasts. You stepped out of sight into the shower and I fell forward onto my hands and crawled closer to the window. You didn’t shut the shower door. Thank-you. I watched you soap yourself and then run the suds down the drain. I imagined my hands washing you and massaging your wet skin. You have a scar on your belly. It’s long and vertical. I would love to reach in through the window and touch it. Was it a caesarean section scar? Most probably.

  I wanted to crawl through the window and take you there against the tiles in the shower. Standing up. My body was more than ready to do that but I breathed deeply, thought about the dead wombats and dragged myself away. I didn’t go there to leer at you. I feel more intimate with you now that I have seen you at your most natural. No masks, costumes or rehearsed lines.

  The strangest thing – (although given the miraculous nature of our paths crossing, hardly surprising) – is that I am fascinated by scars. I’ve told you I despise the quest for perfection. I find the scar of a harelip attractive. I knew a girl at school whose arms had been badly burned and the skin was puckered and deformed. We were friends for a while and she used to let me run my fingers over her scars. It brought her some joy because everyone else, even her parents, was afraid to touch them.

  I suspect you are the same. I bet you don’t wear a bikini to the beach. You’ll probably try to hide it from me. Request the lights off but I will run my fingers over it and stroke it and I’ll make it feel wonderful for you.

  I keep going off on a tangent. I moved back through the dark and opened the small door of your gas system, protecting the pilot light from the elements. With one sharp breath I blew it out and moved switches from on to off, randomly, by touch, as I couldn’t see what I was doing.

  I figure that when you have no hot water or heating in the morning, you’ll be straight on the phone to your property manager to report it.

  I know this because women ring the property manager or the gas company while men go out to investigate and fix it. I’m not being sexist. It’s science. We are wired differently. It’s a bit like asking someone to think of a number between one and ten. It is a scientific fact that seventy-five percent of people will say seven. I’ve done that trick to a few people. I write down a number and ask them for a number between one and ten and EVERY TIME their answer is seven. That is how I know you will call me tomorrow in the morning.

  I’m not going to chase you for the rent. I’ll let you come to me.

  I will count wombats to get to sleep tonight to avoid playing your naked body in my brain, like a video -rewinding and playing and rewinding and playing all night long.

  23/06/05 Wednesday

  Belinda was sick again so I got demoted to ‘receptionist’. That meant I had to play check-out chick to all the tenants who came to pay rent. Doling out change like a brainless cashier.

  I kept glancing across the street to the window nearest your desk. You aren’t really a receptionist. That’s such an unimpressive title. You are more like the surgery concierge – meeting, greeting and generally spreading comfort and good will.

  I waited for your call all morning but it didn’t come.

  At midday you walked out of the surgery, pulling a vintage fake fur over your clothes. You really know how to pull focus. I saw you squint across the road and I smiled to myself when I saw you headed my way.

  You threw open the door sending a rush of cold air into the office. Your face was shining and tight from the sub-zero temperature.

  “I’ve got rent. Sorry I’m late.”

  I waved a hand up at you and told you that was the least of my worries. I thought about your scar and imagined licking it.

  You mentioned the problem with the heating and hot water and cooking and I agreed that the middle of winter is not a good time for that to happen. I generously donated my services, explaining that I knew a little bit about that particular system.

  The office door opened. More cold air. Another tenant to pay rent.

  “Hey there, Grace.”

  It was a young bloke called Andrew Cox. I rented a nice weatherboard to him and his wife about six months ago.

  “Andy, how’s it going?” You smiled back. I didn’t like the smile. It was broader than the one you had given me.

  “You know each other?” I spoke rigidly as I printed up a receipt for each of you.

  “My daughter’s in Gracie’s drama class.” Andy explained.

  He called you Gracie. I didn’t like that either. It was far too familiar.

  Then the two of you began to chat as if I didn’t exist. I looked at this fellow. He was married so he wasn’t available. I hoped you knew that. He was tall with a mop of dark, wildly curly hair. Dark eyes. He could have some Mediterranean blood, I think. I stood there with your receipts in my hand like a redundant fool while you completely ignored me, beaming at this fellow. He doesn’t even have a job. He’s the house husband while his wife brings in the bread.

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? We’re having a family roast. Bring the kids if you like.” He told you his wife was an excellent cook.

  I relaxed a little. It seemed a very innocent invitation
politely extended to his daughter’s teacher. I have to accept that you will have friends and meet people and talk to people. Not every male is a predator. I spend day in day out with Belinda and Karen here in the office and I would sooner eat road-kill than touch either of them.

  You accepted the invitation. He left after writing down his address for you. I smiled at you and asked when you would like me to look at your heating system. I could go for the double entendre there but won’t.

  You have two hours off for lunch every day while the doctor supposedly does home visits. I’ve only ever seen him visit the café, often at the expense of some attractive female rep for a pharmaceutical company. He doesn’t do lunch with the male reps. I hope they don’t try to get to him through you. It is a job requirement for drug reps to be professional flirts. But you’re sharp. You wouldn’t play that game.

  You agreed to meet me at your place at 1:30 p.m which gave us both time to eat and me to finish the bloody paperwork that seems to be larger whenever Belinda is “sick.” I swear she sees her in- box and when it’s full she comes down with some virus. You can’t really fire someone for having a weak immune system but I wish Ron would sack her because she’s a lazy, whining, incompetent, blonde ditz. Just between you and me, I think Ron has another job in mind for Belinda. There can’t be any other reason for his remarkable tolerance with this silly girl.